The Collected Poems

by Sylvia Plath

Did it come like an arrow, did it come like a knife ? Which of the poisons is it ? Which of the nerve-curlers, the convulsors ? Did it electrify ? This is a case without a body. The body does not come into it at all.

Is it blood clots the tendrils are dragging up that string ? No, no, it is scarlet flowers that will one day be edible.

I could not run without having to run forever.

The upflight of the murderess into a heaven that loves her.

Whose is that long white box in the grove, what have they accomplished, why am I cold.

I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree.

I am no drudge Though for years I have eaten dust And dried plates with my dense hair. And seen my strangeness evaporate,

Wintering in a dark without window At the heart of the house

This is the room I have never been in. This is the room I could never breathe in. The black bunched in there like a bat, No light

Winter is for women———

Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas Succeed in banking their fires To enter another year ? What will they taste of, the Christmas roses? The bees are flying. They taste the spring. 9

It is guaranteed To thumb shut your eyes at the end And dissolve of sorrow.

How about this suit——— Black and stiff, but not a bad fit. Will you marry it? It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof Against fire and bombs through the roof. Believe me, they’ll bury you in it.

But no less a devil for that, no not Any less the black man who Bit my pretty red heart in two.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two———

My mind winds to you Old barnacled umbilicus, Atlantic cable, Keeping itself, it seems, in a state of miraculous repair. In any case, you are always there,

I didn’t call you. I didn’t call you at all. Nevertheless, nevertheless You steamed to me over the sea, Fat and red, a placenta Paralysing the kicking lovers.

The same placard of blue fog is wheeled into position With the same trees and headstones. Is that all he can come up with, The rattler of keys ?

Carapace smashed, I spread to the beaks of birds.

The fever trickles and stiffens in my hair. My ribs show. What have I eaten ? Lies and smiles. Surely the sky is not that color, Surely the grass should be rippling.

I imagine him Impotent as distant thunder, In whose shadow I have eaten my ghost ration.

What would the dark Do without fevers to eat ? What would the light Do without eyes to knife, what would he Do, do, do without me?

We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, Me and you.

That night the moon Dragged its blood bag, sick Animal Up over the harbor lights. And then grew normal, Hard and apart and white.

The aguey tendon, the sin, the sin. The tinder cries. The indelible smell Of a snuffed candle! Love, love, the low smokes roll From me like Isadora’s scarves, I’m in a fright One scarf will catch and anchor in the wheel.

Darling, all night I have been flickering, off, on, off, on. The sheets grow heavy as a lecher’s kiss.

Does not my heat astound you. And my light. All by myself I am a huge camellia Glowing and coming and going, flush on flush.

A celebration, this is. Out of a gap A million soldiers run, Redcoats, every one.

The balled Pulp of your heart Confronts its small Mill of silence How you jump——— Trepanned veteran, Dirty girl, Thumb stump.

O my God, what am I That these late mouths should cry open In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Love, love, I have hung our cave with roses, With soft rugs------- The last of Victoriana. Let the stars Plummet to their dark address,

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.

I am a letter in this slot——— I fly to a name, two eyes. Will there be fire, will there be bread ?

And the men, what is left of the men Pumped ahead by these pistons, this blood Into the next mile, The next hour——— Dynasty of broken arrows!

Is there no still place Turning and turning in the middle air, Untouched and untouchable.

The comets Have such a space to cross, Such coldness, forgetfulness.

The dark fruits revolve and fall. The glass cracks across, The image Flees and aborts like dropped mercury.

And you, great Stasis——— What is so great in that!

It is a heart, This holocaust I walk in, O golden child the world will kill and eat. 19

The train leaves a line of breath. O slow Horse the color of rust,

The tree of life and the tree of life Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose. The blood flood is the flood of love,

The snow drops its pieces of darkness,

My god the iron lung That loves me, pumps My two Dust bags in and out, Will not Let me relapse While the day outside glides by like ticker tape.

There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through

What is the remedy ? The pill of the Communion tablet, The walking beside still water ? Memory ?

The heart has not stopped.

What is so real as the cry of a child ?

And here you come, with a cup of tea Wreathed in steam. The blood jet is poetry, There is no stopping it. You hand me two children, two roses.

Axes After whose stroke the wood rings, And the echoes! Echoes traveling Off from the center like horses. The sap Wells like tears, like the Water striving To re-establish its mirror Over the rock That drops and turns,